


and this.

by seb



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gift Fic, M/M, Marriage, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Post-Kings Rising, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 03:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20167123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seb/pseuds/seb
Summary: Marriage. A simple word. The union of two people, of royalty, of kingdoms. Less simple.Damen and Laurent get the marriage they deserve in Arles. The coming together of cultures ensues.





	and this.

**Author's Note:**

> Wedging myself into a fandom meant writing 10k in a month after a hiatus and more depressive spirals over my writing quality. Let's see where this takes me.
> 
> Don't worry, folks, I'll still be writing Homestuck. This just means I have twice as much on my progress plate.

Damen fidgets nervously in the room just beyond the throne room. Servants bustle around him, pulling at his clothes, fussing with his hair, fumbling with tapestries. If he sees a familiar face, it is gone in an instant. He feels incredibly alone and, dare he admit, scared. He could wage wars, face evil itself, take on a mortal wound— but he could not face this as boldly as he could the others.

Marriage. A simple word. The union of two people, of royalty, of kingdoms. Less simple.

Damen can see himself in the mirror amidst the flurry of people. He looks like a King. He is strong, powerful, handsome. But he does not look like the Exalted. He wears Veretian clothing, slowly growing familiar, flattering. Blue, barely patterned fabric dons his torso, a high collar covering his neck, gold lacing and accents bright and complimenting his complexion. He stands a little straighter, lips drawn together in a pout. He is proud to take this culture, this kingdom, onto his shoulders. He is proud to take Laurent’s hand and give him the respect he deserves. However, he wishes their wedding took place when it was a bit colder.

No matter. It is now that they thought best to establish their union, and today that courtiers and common folk alike gather around the castle, some in its grand halls, to celebrate. It’s a political matter, Damen reminds himself. Something to concrete the alliance between Akielos and Vere: the joining of their rulers. The economy will be booming, the feuds will cease— if all goes well, that is. If a revolution doesn’t break out on the steps of the palace, it will be a miracle. Damen pulls anxiously at his collar and is tsked by a passing servant as it’s fixed back into place.

He breathes. This is meant to be a joyous day, even if weighted by political intrigue. A smile graces his face for the first time today as he imagines Laurent on the other side of the throne room, fussing over himself too much for anyone else to fuss over him. His golden hair with constant fingers brushing through the strands, blue eyes squinting into the mirror, posture stiff with tension.

A gentle touch to Damen’s head stuns him from his daydream. A forged golden laurel wreath has been placed on his head carefully, shifted until it nestles into his curls flatteringly. A familiar figure, a familiar face, Nikandros leans out from behind him and looks into the mirror.

“Exalted,” he says, hair falling forward as he bows. 

“Nikandros,” Damen says, turning to face him, then to step off the platform he’s been preened and prodded at on. He takes Nikandros’ hand in his and pulls him in for a crushing hug. “Friend, it is a joy and a relief to see you.”

Nikandros looks taken aback when Damen stands up straight again but quickly recovers, patting Damen’s shoulder with his free hand. “On today of all days,” he teases, “you are glad to see me?”

Damen laughs, throwing his head back and squeezing Nikandros’ hand in his. He shakes their joined hands and fixes his gaze on his friend he’s known practically since birth, the friend he rolled around in sawdust in, the friend he watched go on epic-worthy journeys and still come back whole. “Of course I am glad to see you,” he says matter-of-factly. “You are my oldest friend. You are my brother.”

It hits somewhere deep in Nikandros’ chest, his face falling to something deeply serious and sincere. He pulls Damen in for another hug, a longer one this time. “I am grateful,” he says, muffled into the fabric of Damen’s collar. “I am grateful to call you my brother and my King.”

They part when a servant swats Nikandros away to straighten out Damen’s shirt for the umpteenth time. Damen shrugs, then claps his hands together. “I will see you in the throne room,” he announces, and Nikandros nods once, bowing again before leaving the room.

It can’t be long now. There is no window this deep in the palace but Damen looks for one anyway, to find any sign of what time of day it is, how much longer until he is to stand in the throne room and await Laurent. This is resolved quickly when the Keeper enters the room, flustered. “The King is prepared for the ceremony,” he states, shuffling papers in his arms. “Is the Exalted in a similar state?”

An affirmative murmur fills the room as Damen is pushed back onto the platform, the Keeper coming closer to examine him. He cinches a lace tighter on Damen’s back, bringing the fabric in tighter to his chest, his waist. It’s becoming very real very quickly, and he hopes the jacket is why it’s suddenly hard to breathe. The Keeper dusts off Damen’s pant legs before backing away, looking at Damen in the mirror. He does not smile, just nods approvingly, and clears his throat. “The Exalted is ready,” he announces, and the relief in the room is palpable. Damen wishes he could feel similarly.

“When does the ceremony begin?” Damen asks, stepping down from the platform. The Keeper, busy with assigning servants to their next post, pauses to give Damen his full attention.

“Now.”

♝♔♝

The procession was a long, arduous process. Flower petals were thrown into Damen’s path as he made his way to the throne, the room thronging with people, Veretian and Akielon alike. There, Charls, looking proud and overjoyed. There, Jord, face set with a silent contentedness. There, Makedon, cheering. It was not until Damen set foot upon the steps of the throne that he caught a glimpse of Nikandros, smiling wide and nodding at him, arms crossed thoughtfully. 

Damen’s cloak is heavy and warm around his shoulders. It was placed on him before he went out the door, some kind of gift. It was set upon his shoulder with a golden lion, slack-jawed and ruby-eyed. Damen could feel the sweat dripping off the back of his neck from the heat and ignored it in favor of glancing down the pathway, awaiting his groom.

Cheers in the hallway. The people in the throne room wait with bated breath for the sight of their Crown King. Children come rushing through, throwing laurel leaves behind them and giggling, delighted to announce the presence of the King. And then, he is there: a white chiton, embroidered with gold, a blue and gold starburst pinned to his shoulder. Behind him: a long expanse of fabric, gold and white and littered with patterns identical to Damen’s jacket. A golden crown sits atop his head, a sheer veil falling from it, encircling Laurent. He looks ethereal, white and gold and a flash of blue as he looks up at Damen.

He is tense. Damen can see it in an instant. He wishes badly to rush down and take him into his arms, but now is not the time, and at the bottom of the throne is not the place. As Laurent ascends the stairs, he can see flowers in his hair, tucked behind his ear and in his crown. He looks beautiful. When he reaches the top, Damen tells him so.

“As do you,” Laurent says, and Damen notices for the first time the dusting of pink on his cheeks. Standing here, level with Damen, train of fabric reaching the floor of the throne room from the dais, Damen sees Laurent’s posture shift to something more relaxed, more comfortable. He is still stiff and straight as a board; but he clasps his hands in front of him proudly, chin high. Damen is dizzily in love with him.

A priest ascends from the back of the thrones to stand beside them, between them. Laurent holds out his hands, palm up. Damen places his hands in them, squeezing his fingers tightly. Laurent, in return, grips his hands like his life depends on it. The tension is evident to no one but Damen, who smooths his thumb along the side of Laurent’s hands soothingly. Laurent takes a deep breath, his exhale disturbing the fall of the veil.

“Welcome all,” the priest begins, and then drones on about the sanctity and importance of this marriage, the novelty of it, bringing two kingdoms together under such extraordinary circumstances. Damen doesn’t pay him much mind, too lost in eating up the very sight of Laurent, standing proud and tall in an Akielon chiton, marrying the Exalted. He imagines Laurent is looking at him similarly: Damen, in Veretian jackets, in a Veretian palace, marrying a Veretian King. Their kingdoms’ histories never would have imagined a coming together of courts; of Kings, especially. 

The priest has stopped talking. An expectant silence fills the throne room. Laurent arches an elegant brow and Damen blinks out of his stupor. “Apologies,” he says, squeezing Laurent’s hands. “I wandered off.”

The priest smiles knowingly, nodding and repeating himself: “Do you, Damianos of Akielos, take Laurent of Vere to be your wedded husband; to stand by for better and for worse, in sickness and in health; until death do you part?”

“I have,” Damen says, looking back at Laurent with a grin and wink. “And I do.”

Laurent rolls his eyes fondly. The priest speaks again: “Do you, Laurent of Vere, take Damen of Akielos to be your wedded husband; to stand by for better and for worse, in sickness and in health; until death do you part?”

“I do,” Laurent says, strong and sure. And then, in a smaller, quieter voice: “I promise.”

_ A kingdom, or this. _

Tears prick Damen’s eyes. He has never been the sentimental type and certainly not the type to shed tears over something so simple. But Laurent is so honest, so genuine, letting out a breath of an oath into the space between them. Damen desperately wants to kiss him.

“Let your marriage be a prosperous one,” the priest says, closing his tattered old book and placing it beneath his arm. He gestures to Laurent. “Damianos, you may lift the veil.”

Damen’s pulse pounds in his wrists as he lets go of Laurent’s hands, instead taking the hem of the veil in his hands. It is soft, delicate; nothing like the man beneath it. It is an honor for Laurent to let Damen share this custom with him.

Laurent’s hands raise to rest on his arms as he lifts the veil, bringing it up and over the crown until Laurent’s face is revealed— bright, shining, smiling— to the mass of people in the room. The priest then reveals a knife, Akielon in design, likely smithed in Ios. “Laurent, if you will do the honors—”

“No need,” Damen says, and pulls a knife from his belt: blue and gold, stars littering the handle. He holds it, blade-down, between him and Laurent. 

Laurent has other plans, taking Damen’s hands in his and turning the blade until it faces up. “Do it for me?”

_ Attend me _ , Damen’s brain provides uselessly. He gathers Laurent’s hair, falling past his shoulders, into his hand and brings it in front of him, brushing his jaw. Laurent closes his eyes, turning his chin up slightly. He does not let go, even when Damen brings the knife to his neck and pinches his hair between blade and thumb before pressing outward, effectively slicing the lock of hair away from the rest. The crowd in the throne room gasps. Damen had forgotten they were there.

“Thank you,” Laurent says quietly.

“Thank  _ you _ ,” Damen responds, just as sincere.

They stare at each other for a moment as understanding floods in. 

The priest clears his throat and clasps his hands together, Akielon knife already tucked away. Damen slowly lowers his hands, still holding the lock of hair and the Veretian knife. Laurent lets go, interrupted by Damen’s fist, blade flipped upside-down again, pressing into his hand. “A gift,” he says, and Laurent beams, taking it from Damen and holding it pressed to his front. 

While Damen gazes at the lock of hair in his hand, Laurent turns to face the crowd. “Friends,” he says loudly, booming in the small room. “People of the joined court of Vere and Akielos. Witness this union between Kings, between men. May Veretians and Akielons alike find peace and joy in this union. And now, in our feast!” The people cheer, invigorated with the promise of all to come, especially the food. In a moment brimming with courage and tradition, Laurent wraps a hand around Damen’s neck and pulls him down to place a chaste, lingering kiss on his mouth. He is left breathless, eyes crinkled in the corners with a smile just for Damen.

_ A kingdom _ , Damen thinks, pulling Laurent in by the waist for another kiss, the cheers around them deafening.  _ And this. _

**Author's Note:**

> Oh by the way, the veil and hair cutting are ancient Greek traditions and so translated to Akielon traditions. I instilled the customs of one country into the wedding, affecting the man from the other country, if that makes sense. Just y'all wait for Veretian wedding customs.


End file.
